Her name was Delilah, and she wore her skirt too short.
Her blouse was too tight, and her makeup was too heavy;
But she was beautiful anyway, though she looked grown up already.
The boys stared after her as she walked down the hall.
They whistled, and they smirked -- but their eyes said it all.
They watched as she bent over, her plaid skirt barely there,
And how the breeze moved gently through her long, blonde hair.
The male teachers acted as if they didn't see,
But their eyes stared too long in the places they shouldn't be.
The girls weren't as nice. "Daddy issues," they claimed;
"That Delilah's a slut -- she probably gets paid."
She chewed pink gum a lot, and blew bubbles with her tongue.
At times like these, she almost seemed young.
On weekends, her parents were often out of town,
So she threw massive parties to fill her massive penthouse.
Many of the prep school boys got their way with her;
They gave her alcohol, drugs, and any other inhibitors.
And the next school day, they'd brag to their buddies.
She'd flirt with them, but her memory was fuzzy.
"I had a great time," they'd say as she passed.
"Yeah, me too." Who had she been with last?
Private school's tough; no excuses were ever allowed.
She got good grades, but no one knew how.
Her classmates would ask: "Delilah, Delilah, how do you keep straight A's?"
She'd smile and say, "I've got my own wicked ways."
And how wicked, so wicked her means were;
One day, after lunch, she was caught with her teacher.
His name was Mr. Burke, and he taught AP Latin.
He was a married man with a family in Manhattan.
An investigation was opened; standard procedure.
And the evidence they found was much more than meager.
Mr. Burke was fired, arrested for sexual assault.
She couldn't believe it; this was all her fault.
People called her a victim, but she didn't act like one.
Her behavior didn't change; she kept doing what she'd always done.
Delilah's a slut -- Delilah's a whore.
The labels didn't bother her; it was the attention she liked more.
"I don't care," she'd tell them all.
"Gossip is better than not being talked about at all."
But then, one day, she didn't come to school.
With a midterm due, even she wasn't that much of a fool.
Three days later, her desk was still vacant.
Authorities were sent; and there she was, in her basement.
Her limbs were at odd angles, and her body was still.
Her blue eyes were wide open, and her own blood was spilled.
She'd been murdered with a blade, something sharp-edged;
One clean slash, right across her neck.
No fingerprints, no DNA, no evidence was found.
The only mess at all was the glistening crimson on the ground.
Who did it? Who killed her? The experts were puzzled.
Classmates were interviewed, but more than anything, they felt troubled.
Her body was carried out, her parents in tow.
She was still dressed in her private school clothes.
Her name was Delilah, and she had wicked ways of her own sort.
Her name was Delilah, and she wore her skirt too short.
~~~~~~
Hey guys!
So this is a poem and obviously not a short story, but I really wanted to try something different. I enjoyed writing this, and I'm thinking of maybe turning it into a story or short story in the future.
I hope you guys like it -- let me know what you think!
